Post by E on Jul 26, 2008 18:28:03 GMT -5
So... I'm a hypocrite. I told myself I'd never post my writing here, as this spot was really intended for something different, but, as one lovely lady said, "The devs don't use it for that anymore anyways." And so... here you go...
***
I ride my chair down the esplanade that runs parallel to the often underappreciated Deerfield Beach. It's late, pushing midnight. My friends and companions are back at a party we were invited to at one of the outdoor bars in a "resort" that might more accurately be described as a dying motel you may expect to pay for by the hour. But hey, there's free drinks and TPUS was getting paid well, so why not? I'm tired of the crowd, the mid-life crisis drunks, and the very popular question, "ARE YOU HAVING A GOOD TIME?!" I've slipped off. No one's noticed. And I'm cruising.
The boardwalk is fairly empty. The moonlight teases the sea caps as the waves roll along the shore. The sky is clear and, as usual, I'm fascinated by the twinkling stars. It feels like I can hear them sometimes as they pulse their rhythms as my heart pulses its own. Rhythm is so important. We live in it. Breathe in it. Dance in it. Make love in it. And when the rhythm of our heart ceases, we die in it. But I digress...
My mind wanders constantly. There's nothing I can do about it. And very often, I can't even control its course -- especially on a night like this, zipping along in solitude, with the beach like this. The fantasies are ever being filmed in my head. I see a girl sitting on one of the benches by herself. She's quietly reading, tucking wisps of dark hair behind her ear as the wind flows by. Her legs are crossed beneath the white beach dress and her book is perched on her thigh. She looks up and we smile at each other. I say hello. She says, "How are you?" A Spanish accent flavors her words. I stop. She's shy, but we start to talk. I say something funny. She laughs. It's a beautiful laugh. I get lost in it, in the way her head tilts back smiling. Time passes easily. We keep talking. She touches my hand. She shares a sad tale. I do, too. Tears wet her cheeks. She's sweet, she's pretty, and as the sun breaks the watery horizon, we kiss.
But that's just my mind. I'm still zipping along the esplanade. I know that girl very well. My mind always has me meet her when I'm wandering aimlessly by myself at night. She's always tucked off somewhere by herself, quietly waiting for me to talk to her -- alone and lonely late at night, just like me. I wonder what her name is.
There are endless mom-and-pop hotels and bars along the beach. There's a party under a pavilion. I stop to watch. The music and dancing are clearly Latin -- how ironic. I enjoy them for a minute, slowly circling the pavilion. They never spot me and there's no cute girl quietly sitting alone. I move on, passing a couple walking hand-in-hand.
It's passed one o'clock. I must be at least two miles away from where I started. These hotels don't end. I see myself slipping into one, getting a room for the night, and paying cash. I turn my phone off. I sleep in the hotel room with my head on the desk until morning. The next day, I ride my chair to Ocean Conversions right there in Deerfield and buy a wheelchair charger. I have them stuff it in my backpack and I head south. I'm not going anywhere specific -- just riding my chair south. I stop by a BankAtlantic and withdraw everything in my account. I have the teller put in my wallet. She looks at me with concern, tugging on the chain that secures my wallet to my chair, "That's a lot of money to be carrying around." What she means is that's a lot of money for ME to be carrying around. I smile and thank her.
I turn my phone on to get directions to the nearest nursing home. "12 new messages." I go through them quickly, deleting as I go. The first three are Mike, my driver from the party, calling drunkenly. He wants to go. Then Casey. Casey again. Mike again. And then my parents. Then Gizmo. I wasn't home when she came to get me up. Then Ryan -- Gizmo had him call. Mike and Casey each call again the next day, sobered up.
I turn my phone back off after I get directions and make my way to the home. I cruise to the front desk. "I'm looking for a nurse... or an aide. A PCA."
"Do they have a name?" She asks me as she peers over the counter, her thin glasses sliding down her pointed nose.
"Um... nope. Any one will do. Off duty would be perfect."
The lady behind the counter wrinkles up her forehead in confusion and gets on the phone. "Hi, Suzy... yeah. Can you come to the front desk? There's a... um... man here."
She hangs up and sits up in her seat to peer down at me again, donning a patronizingly practiced smile. "She'll be right with you."
I nod and back up, looking down the hallway. Here comes Suzy. Suzy is clearly not a duty nurse or a PCA. Her badge reads "Floor Manager." She bends down to talk to me. She has that same patronizing smile, but this one is coupled with the voice to match. "Hi, I'm Suzy. What can I do for you?"
"I'd like to pay one of your PCA's $100 to wash me and help me use the restroom. It'll take about 45 minutes."
"Well, we really can't do something like that. Our liability insurance, you know, and..."
"I would really appreciate it. I'm kind of in a bind. You don't have anyone who could use the extra money? I'm really simple."
Suzy sighs and stands upright, looking down at me. "Maybe. Wait right here."
I leave the nursing home a little over an hour later feeling much better, continuing my journey south. I go as far as I can until my chair battery starts to protest. I find the cheapest nearby hotel that I can and, with a small tip, get the bellhop to plug my chair in for the night. My back is torturing me for not laying down two nights in a row, but I stave it off to get as much sleep as I can. Tomorrow is Sunday and I plan to make it to Golden Heights for church -- maybe evening service.
My phone is ringing. I blink. I'm back at the boardwalk in Deerfield, actually at the end, out on a pier. I look at my watch: 1:55. I pull out my phone. It's Mike. I miss the call like always but call him back.
"Heeeellllooooo? Where aaaaaarrreeee you?" He's wasted. This should be a fun ride home. Fear Factor strikes again. Anyone can eat bugs. I should get the $50,000 prize for enduring the trip. Fear is obviously not a factor for me.
"I'm down the boardwalk."
"Well, c'mon, dude... we're going soon."
"I'll be there in a bit."
I turn around and head back in the direction I came. Fortunately, I just went straight. I can't get lost going back. I feel drained from the fantasies, still caught up in them, as I often do. My mind is fuzzy and subdued. I look at each bench, searching for that lonely girl. And I glance at a hotel, begging me to stop for the night, never to be seen again.
***
I ride my chair down the esplanade that runs parallel to the often underappreciated Deerfield Beach. It's late, pushing midnight. My friends and companions are back at a party we were invited to at one of the outdoor bars in a "resort" that might more accurately be described as a dying motel you may expect to pay for by the hour. But hey, there's free drinks and TPUS was getting paid well, so why not? I'm tired of the crowd, the mid-life crisis drunks, and the very popular question, "ARE YOU HAVING A GOOD TIME?!" I've slipped off. No one's noticed. And I'm cruising.
The boardwalk is fairly empty. The moonlight teases the sea caps as the waves roll along the shore. The sky is clear and, as usual, I'm fascinated by the twinkling stars. It feels like I can hear them sometimes as they pulse their rhythms as my heart pulses its own. Rhythm is so important. We live in it. Breathe in it. Dance in it. Make love in it. And when the rhythm of our heart ceases, we die in it. But I digress...
My mind wanders constantly. There's nothing I can do about it. And very often, I can't even control its course -- especially on a night like this, zipping along in solitude, with the beach like this. The fantasies are ever being filmed in my head. I see a girl sitting on one of the benches by herself. She's quietly reading, tucking wisps of dark hair behind her ear as the wind flows by. Her legs are crossed beneath the white beach dress and her book is perched on her thigh. She looks up and we smile at each other. I say hello. She says, "How are you?" A Spanish accent flavors her words. I stop. She's shy, but we start to talk. I say something funny. She laughs. It's a beautiful laugh. I get lost in it, in the way her head tilts back smiling. Time passes easily. We keep talking. She touches my hand. She shares a sad tale. I do, too. Tears wet her cheeks. She's sweet, she's pretty, and as the sun breaks the watery horizon, we kiss.
But that's just my mind. I'm still zipping along the esplanade. I know that girl very well. My mind always has me meet her when I'm wandering aimlessly by myself at night. She's always tucked off somewhere by herself, quietly waiting for me to talk to her -- alone and lonely late at night, just like me. I wonder what her name is.
There are endless mom-and-pop hotels and bars along the beach. There's a party under a pavilion. I stop to watch. The music and dancing are clearly Latin -- how ironic. I enjoy them for a minute, slowly circling the pavilion. They never spot me and there's no cute girl quietly sitting alone. I move on, passing a couple walking hand-in-hand.
It's passed one o'clock. I must be at least two miles away from where I started. These hotels don't end. I see myself slipping into one, getting a room for the night, and paying cash. I turn my phone off. I sleep in the hotel room with my head on the desk until morning. The next day, I ride my chair to Ocean Conversions right there in Deerfield and buy a wheelchair charger. I have them stuff it in my backpack and I head south. I'm not going anywhere specific -- just riding my chair south. I stop by a BankAtlantic and withdraw everything in my account. I have the teller put in my wallet. She looks at me with concern, tugging on the chain that secures my wallet to my chair, "That's a lot of money to be carrying around." What she means is that's a lot of money for ME to be carrying around. I smile and thank her.
I turn my phone on to get directions to the nearest nursing home. "12 new messages." I go through them quickly, deleting as I go. The first three are Mike, my driver from the party, calling drunkenly. He wants to go. Then Casey. Casey again. Mike again. And then my parents. Then Gizmo. I wasn't home when she came to get me up. Then Ryan -- Gizmo had him call. Mike and Casey each call again the next day, sobered up.
I turn my phone back off after I get directions and make my way to the home. I cruise to the front desk. "I'm looking for a nurse... or an aide. A PCA."
"Do they have a name?" She asks me as she peers over the counter, her thin glasses sliding down her pointed nose.
"Um... nope. Any one will do. Off duty would be perfect."
The lady behind the counter wrinkles up her forehead in confusion and gets on the phone. "Hi, Suzy... yeah. Can you come to the front desk? There's a... um... man here."
She hangs up and sits up in her seat to peer down at me again, donning a patronizingly practiced smile. "She'll be right with you."
I nod and back up, looking down the hallway. Here comes Suzy. Suzy is clearly not a duty nurse or a PCA. Her badge reads "Floor Manager." She bends down to talk to me. She has that same patronizing smile, but this one is coupled with the voice to match. "Hi, I'm Suzy. What can I do for you?"
"I'd like to pay one of your PCA's $100 to wash me and help me use the restroom. It'll take about 45 minutes."
"Well, we really can't do something like that. Our liability insurance, you know, and..."
"I would really appreciate it. I'm kind of in a bind. You don't have anyone who could use the extra money? I'm really simple."
Suzy sighs and stands upright, looking down at me. "Maybe. Wait right here."
I leave the nursing home a little over an hour later feeling much better, continuing my journey south. I go as far as I can until my chair battery starts to protest. I find the cheapest nearby hotel that I can and, with a small tip, get the bellhop to plug my chair in for the night. My back is torturing me for not laying down two nights in a row, but I stave it off to get as much sleep as I can. Tomorrow is Sunday and I plan to make it to Golden Heights for church -- maybe evening service.
My phone is ringing. I blink. I'm back at the boardwalk in Deerfield, actually at the end, out on a pier. I look at my watch: 1:55. I pull out my phone. It's Mike. I miss the call like always but call him back.
"Heeeellllooooo? Where aaaaaarrreeee you?" He's wasted. This should be a fun ride home. Fear Factor strikes again. Anyone can eat bugs. I should get the $50,000 prize for enduring the trip. Fear is obviously not a factor for me.
"I'm down the boardwalk."
"Well, c'mon, dude... we're going soon."
"I'll be there in a bit."
I turn around and head back in the direction I came. Fortunately, I just went straight. I can't get lost going back. I feel drained from the fantasies, still caught up in them, as I often do. My mind is fuzzy and subdued. I look at each bench, searching for that lonely girl. And I glance at a hotel, begging me to stop for the night, never to be seen again.
Would love to read more from you. 